The first screams came from the far end of the village.
Theron lifted his head as the sound echoed through the trees before cutting off abruptly. Silence followed. He had been sitting at the table, staring at the grain pattern in the wood, thinking about nothing in particular. The evening meal sat half-eaten before him.
Then came the shouting. Orders barked in unfamiliar voices, the sound of metal striking flesh, screams from men and women alike. The sounds were distinct now, no longer distant enough to dismiss.
His father burst through the door. "We've got to move now!"
The word caught in Theron's throat as he scrambled to his feet. The chair scraped against the floor. His mother rose from the table, pressing her palms together. The faintest shimmer of mana gathered beneath her skin before fading.
"They found us," she said.
Outside, the screams tore through the night, closer now. Theron could hear individual voices. A woman calling for her children. A man's shout cut short. The crack of wood splintering.
"No," his father replied, struggling to catch his breath. "Their shields. They're from the Voldmere Empire."
The words hung in the air. Theron had heard stories about the Empire. Everyone had. They hunted mages. Burned villages suspected of harboring them. Left nothing standing when they found what they were looking for.
Boots pounded against the ground in steady, uniform rhythm. Not the panicked running of villagers. These were disciplined. Organized. Smoke crept through the gap beneath the door, stinging Theron's eyes. A house down the path went up in flames, firelight flickering between the trees. The orange glow painted shadows across the walls.
"We should have left."
His father didn't argue. He crossed the room and checked the window, peeking through the gap in the shutters. He froze there, shoulders tensing.
"They're sweeping house by house."
A shout rose outside, sharp and commanding, followed by the crash of wood giving way. The sound came from two houses down. Maybe three. Somewhere nearby, someone pleaded. The words were indistinct but the tone was unmistakable. Desperation. Terror. The sound ended abruptly.
His mother closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her expression had settled into something hard and deliberate.
"Stay where you are," she told Theron. "No matter what happens."
His mouth felt dry. He wanted to ask what she meant. What they were going to do. Where they could go. But the words wouldn't come. He nodded.
The village went silent.
It was worse than the screaming. The absence of sound meant the fighting was over. It meant the soldiers had moved through systematically, house by house, and now they were close.
Theron's mother inhaled slowly. Whatever hesitation had been there was gone. She lifted her hands, palms turning upward as she drew in what little mana she could muster. The light that gathered beneath her skin was faint, unstable, straining against an unseen weight. Her jaw tightened with the effort.
His father tensed beside her, breath held, fingers flexing as if testing the air for something Theron couldn't see.
The door shattered from a single kick.
Wood split as the hinges bent inward. Three soldiers entered fast, blades already drawn. Their armor was dark, functional. No decorative markings. Just efficiency. The lead soldier's eyes swept the room, taking in everything in an instant.
Theron's mother moved first. Her hands rose, trembling. Mana gathered in her palms, the light growing brighter as she tried to shape it into something, anything that could protect them.
Steel came down.
The strike hit her wrist, cutting through flesh and bone in one clean motion. The spell collapsed. The gathered mana dispersed into nothing.
She screamed and fell back, blood spraying across the wood floor. The severed hand hit the ground near the hearth, fingers still curled as if trying to hold onto the magic that had been building there.
Theron's father lunged forward, one hand reaching for her, the other already shaping a spell he would never finish. His fingers glowed faintly. The mana was forming. Almost there.
A blade slid into his side, angled up beneath the ribs. The second followed a heartbeat later, puncturing his throat.
The glow faded. His body slumped when the blades withdrew, collapsing onto the blood-slicked floor. His hand reached toward Theron's mother, still outstretched, before going still.
The lead soldier exhaled slowly. The floor creaked as he approached the screaming woman.
She clawed at the ground with her remaining hand, dragging herself backward, eyes wild. Blood smeared across the boards, dark and slick beneath her palm. She was trying to speak but the words came out broken, incoherent.
"Enough," the man said.
He raised his blade and brought it down through the side of her neck. The sound was wet and final. Her body jerked once, then stilled. The scream cut off as if someone had closed a door.
Silence settled into the room, broken only by Theron's breathing.
He couldn't look away. His parents lay on the floor in spreading pools of blood. His mother's eyes were still open, staring at nothing. His father's hand was still reaching toward her.
One of the soldiers glanced at the bodies on the floor, then at the severed wrist lying near the hearth. "They really thought they could stay hidden out here."
The lead soldier wiped his blade clean on his cloak before turning toward the corner where Theron stood.
Theron hadn't moved.
He stood rigid, eyes fixed on his parents' bodies, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The smell of blood filled the room. Copper and salt. The soldier studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable, then gestured with two fingers.
"Check him," he said. "If he's a mage, bring him with us."
He turned toward the exit, already dismissing the boy from his attention.
"If he's not, execute him too."
The soldier's steps were slow and deliberate as he approached Theron. He reached into a pouch at his belt and withdrew a spherical object, no larger than a child's fist. Smooth. Metallic. He paused in front of the boy, pressing the sphere against Theron's chest.
Theron felt the pressure. Cold metal against his sternum. He waited for something to happen. Light. Pain. Anything.
Nothing happened.
The sphere remained dull. Lifeless.
"No response," the soldier said quietly.
He returned the sphere to his pouch and drew his blade in one smooth motion. There was no hesitation. No ceremony. Just procedure.
The blade drove straight through the centre of Theron's chest and was pulled free in a single, efficient motion.
The force knocked the air from his lungs. Theron fell backward. His body hit the floor beside his parents with a thud. Pain flared, sharp and blinding. He tried to breathe but nothing came. His lungs wouldn't work. The ceiling above him tilted and blurred.
The soldier stepped back without looking at him again.
"It's done."
One by one, they left, their voices fading into the trees outside. The door creaked as it swung shut, then settled crooked in its frame, hanging at an angle from the broken hinges.
Blood soaked into the floor beneath Theron's back, warm at first, then slowly cooling. His vision darkened at the edges, the ceiling above him blurring as his heartbeat slowed. Each thud grew weaker. Fainter. The rhythm faltering.
His chest did not rise.
Theron lay motionless, the weight of his body pressing against the wound. Sensation faded unevenly. The pain dulled first, becoming distant, then disappeared altogether. The blood beneath him continued to spread for a time before slowing, pooling around his shoulders.
His vision narrowed until the ceiling was nothing more than a pale shape suspended above him. The edges closed in. Darkness crept inward from all sides.
Then nothing.
Time did not pass in any way he could perceive. The darkness held without movement. No thoughts formed. No awareness remained. Just absence.
A dull pressure registered first, followed by the realization of weight against his back. The surface beneath him was cold. Hard. The warmth had long since left.
Air entered his lungs in a shallow intake.
His body reacted, drawing in another breath, then another. Each one slightly deeper. The rhythm was automatic. Instinctive.
His heartbeat strengthened. The rhythm was uneven but present. A faint ringing filled his ears, steady and dull, masking everything else.
Sensation returned in fragments. Pressure against his back. Cold seeping through his clothes. The stiffness of dried blood beneath him, crusted and stiff against his skin.
His fingers twitched. The movement was small. Barely noticeable. But it was there.
His eyes began opening.
The ceiling came into focus slowly. The same pale wood he had stared at before. Familiar. Unchanged.
He blinked.
His chest rose. Fell. Rose again.
Theron lay on the floor beside his parents, still and silent, as dawn light crept through the broken door.